Keep It Sweet, Keep It Slow
by Apalapucian
Summary: She needs him, needs a lot of things; needs to inspect his head for herself and make sure he didn't crack it open, because he's an idiot. She needs to apologize and berate, needs to trace his jaw with her fingertips, unearth the seasons in his eyes, taste his Quidditch-sky-laden lips.


**AN:** For Jily Week, Day 6. Prompt: _feelings. _

* * *

She's avoiding him, and he hasn't the slightest why.

He doesn't think he's done anything wrong. Or said anything, really.

Is it because of that thing the other week? On Hogsmeade weekend? He held her hand on the way back to the carriage station, but... she let him, didn't she? He thinks she did. She smiled, you know? She never mentioned it again after that, but just not to make a big deal out of it, he reckoned. He hasn't held her hand since, as much as he wanted to. But he's started waiting for her in the Common Room for breakfast since then—without his mates, so it's clear and all—and she's been delighted to see him there every time. Seemed so, at least. And they've sat next to each other in classes. He thought it could be the start of something more... Is she starting to regret all of that? Why?

In Charms Thursday afternoon he tries to think of something he might have said-he could be stupid at times-or something he's done that might have upset her or made her uncomfortable or made her have second thoughts or something. But... zilch. Nada. He stares at the back of her head—she's seated three rows away from him today, scribbling something on the corner of her notebook. She hasn't stayed this far from him in forever. She started sitting just a row away. She gets farther every time. She leaves the room early, too, so usually there's just Sirius clapping him on the back, Remus smiling apologetically, Peter wondering out loud.

She's not going to breakfast anymore. Which is absurd, if you ask him, because whatever his issue with James is, she shouldn't be neglecting herself like that. He could stop waiting for her, if that's the problem; she just has to ask. On the third day of her not showing up he even did. He went straight to the Great Hall without stopping by, just so she would maybe start going again. She didn't. Maybe he just misses her at it, but he can't possibly, unless she's deliberately making him miss her...

He's asked Mary about it. She just shrugs. But there's something about her, something in her eyes that makes him sure she knows something, she just can't tell. It's frustrating.

To be honest, though, he sort of doesn't want to know what the problem is, lest it's something irreparable. Like, what if it's something he can't change, and he's going to be sure then that he can't be with her? So he lets it drag for a bit. Some Gryffindor he is.

Sometimes he catches her eye. It's inevitable, there's not much between them in the castle, even with her adamant insistence that she stay away from him for God knows what reason. He smiles. He gets frantic, but he tries not to show. She smiles, too, but it's... different. Not very her. Next thing he knows she's running away again.

He's scared to ask, but good Godric, it's been _a week. _Not knowing is starting to suck more than the fear of what might have gone wrong.

Plus he really, really, _really_ wants to hold her hand again.

* * *

It's impossible for him to not have noticed. She tried, she promises, really tried not to let anything change, but it's just… ugh, she doesn't even know. She's being ridiculous, most probably, but...

Okay, last week, right, she was doing some practical Defence tests with Mary in the dormitories, and it was going well. Until they got to Patronus charms, that was, and she—

She produced a corporeal Patronus for the first time. Which is great. Really. Bloody fantastic. She's been trying to get it right since fourth year, but apparently her repertoire of happy memories still wasn't sufficient.

It was a doe, if anyone's wondering. Her Patronus is a _doe_. And nothing, there's nothing at all about it—there _should_ be nothing. They're excellent animals. Except everyone in the year knows what James's Patronus is, the show-off that he is, and… and they match, so to speak. Mary promised not to breathe a word, but she said she really didn't think there should be a big deal at all about it. It's just Patronus. So they match; what of it?

But Professor Enza said it means compatibility, matching Patronuses. Because of course she asked. Attachment. It means—it _might_ mean—affections deep and real enough to warrant a change in it, or, as in Lily's case, for it to finally adopt a proper form. It's one of a witch's most essential inner representations, Enza said. And so maybe Lily freaked out.

"Why?" she asked Lily, too, after generously explaining, to which Lily just mumbled something indistinct about academic research. Enza didn't seem like the type to care about such trivial things anyway.

So yeah. Compatibility. Attachment. Deep... what, deep feelings? _Affections_. God. It's so dumb, getting this affected about it, but—but they were just getting along so well! What if this—what if it ruins it? It's just so unfair, you know, developing these _feelings _this late, now that they're good friends.

Good friends who hold hands, good friends who go to breakfast together...

God, she misses him.

* * *

She stays behind in Charms to ask about the reading assignment the next day, and James seizes his chance. He mutters some lame excuse about a quill he left behind, and bids his mates to go ahead without him. Sirius rolls his eyes, puts an arm each around Peter and Remus, and then leads them all to the Great Hall for lunch without comment.

When James peeks inside the classroom, she's still talking to Professor Flitwick. He leans against the wall and waits outside, ignoring with all his might his heart going bonkers.

* * *

James is outside waiting for her. This was bound to happen, really; they share too many classes and technically live under the same roof, so it's silly to be surprised. She still is, though.

He greets Flitwick when he walks out of the room—he sounds cheery enough, and that eases her nerves, if only a little—and the professor trots down the hall and disappears shortly after. They stand across each other in the corridor, Lily's arms crossed.

She wants to hug him, but she stops herself.

* * *

Her silence is going to drive James mad.

"Hi," he says. He feels like a prat.

"Er, I'm going to be late for a meeting with Professor Slughorn..."

"Oh. That's okay, Slughorn loves you anyway. I'm sure he won't mind."

She nods. "What are you doing out here?"

"I was waiting for you."

She smiles at him, tight-lipped, nervous, but she doesn't answer.

He shifts his weight. "Are you... Did I do something wrong, Lily?"

* * *

The castle hallways are at its drabbest during noon, with the sun beating down the windows and erasing most of the colour from the misted glass. The place feels empty, most of the students being in the Great Hall for lunch. Lily thinks it's a shame he had to be so irresistible in such a time. This would have worked far better under the stars, or on top of a hill, maybe, or on a sandy seashore somewhere.

But however dull the corridor seems compared to his exploding hair and his fidgeting hands and that little frown his mouth is in, and however untimely this slice of the day is, she feels right about it. Maybe that's just how some things unfold in real life. She sees it, the right timing. It's in the unspoken words and her longing hands and the pleasant drumbeats of her heart. This is where—_when—_she stops running away from him. Where he catches up.

She fishes out her wand. It will make no sense to him, she knows that, but she can't decide how to begin explaining, so maybe she'll just go about the whole thing answering his first questions—

"Expecto Patronum."

* * *

When she put out her wand he thought whatever he did must have been his most insensitive and moronic yet, because now she's going to hex him for it and for not figuring it out for himself.

And then she produces a Patronus, and his mind goes blank. He watches the doe prance around them.

Lily is quiet, although her cheeks have a slight tint to them now.

"So you're..." he begins to say, but he honestly doesn't know what's going on. Congratulations? Is that it? Is there a question? What is he supposed to say? "It's... what is it?"

"It's a doe."

"Okay."

"It's my Patronus."

"I can see that."

"Do you hate me?"

He chortles. It's a bit hysterical, _he's_ hysterical, but what the hell. He probably shouldn't have laughed, though, because now she looks alarmed. "No, no, of course not. Why would I hate you?"

She frowns. "Because."

"Because your Patronus is a doe? Don't be absurd."

"Isn't yours a stag?"

He's lost. "Er, yes, so what? Is that, like, plagiarism? Why would I hate you for that?"

She stares at him, and then her shoulders sag. She frowns at the doe until it dissolves into thin wisps of light. It doesn't look as much as the spectacle it is during noon. "I don't know," she answers at length. "Enza said... I don't know."

"What did she say?"

"She said it could... mean things."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His throat goes dry. He thinks he understands now. "Is that bad?" he asks slowly. "Meaning things?"

Her lips twitch up into a small smile, but the crease on her forehead hasn't altogether disappeared. "Not really. I just thought you might be disconcerted."

"Why?"

"I've been mean to you in the past, haven't I?"

"For good reason, though."

She juts out her lower lip in thought, then hangs her head. "Yeah, you were a prat."

"I was, yeah..."

"Still."

"What?"

"It's a bit... pretentious, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"You know..."

"Fancying me?" Because that's it, isn't it? He can't help it—he smirks. His stomach feels weird. He has to smirk the weirdness out.

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks flush an even deeper red. "Well, isn't it?"

Oh, god. She _does_. "Nah."

She sighs. "I just—I couldn't face you."

"Why?"

"I couldn't stop thinking about it. And I didn't think I could go too long around you without telling you, and that would have been hypocritical of me. It would've ruined things."

He makes a face. "How could fancying me be in any way destructive?"

"Will you stop saying that?"

"Fancying me?" He snorts. "Possibly never."

"I just thought you'd hate me for it," she explains, exasperated. "I mean, I've turned you down, right, and now that we're... _okay_, I..."

"You produce a perfect corporeal Patronus and then start avoiding me."

"You're making it sound silly."

"It _is_ a bit silly..."

"It's important to me, James, okay?"

He uncrosses his arms and takes a step forward. "Okay. I'm sorry."

Her eyes bore onto his, the confusion there confusing _him_; and then they soften before shifting on to the floor. "I'm scared."

"Of me?"

"Sort of, yeah."

He runs a nervous hand through his hair. "I don't bite, you know," he says. "Sometimes I wish I could breathe fire, but I'd stop writing that bit to Father Christmas this year if you want."

That makes her laugh, thank Merlin. "So you don't hate me?"

"The idea is laughable, Evans."

"Okay."

"Do _you_ hate me?"

"Maybe." But there's a smile playing on the corners of her lips.

A crazy thought crosses his mind, and, because he hasn't quite mastered the skill where one puts ample thought into something before blurting it out, he asks, "Do you trust me?"

* * *

"No," she tells him at once, but it comes out half a chuckle, and she's chewing on her lower lip to keep a smile at bay.

"Come on. Just today—just for a minute even. Literally a minute."

"What are you going to do?"

"Just a minute, Evans. Nothing bad, I promise."

"Fine."

"Close your eyes."

"Okay, no. Not fine."

"Come _on_. Just a minute. Thirty seconds."

"How do I know you're not going to draw things on my face?"

"Really? The number of things you could have thought of and you go for drawing things on your face?"

"I'm really stressed out right now," she reasons, practically groaning. "I should never talk to you about my feelings."

His laugh is as warm as the smoked glass windows. "I promise not to draw things on your face."

She narrows her eyes at him, the warning clear before she closes them.

* * *

She's beautiful. He's always known that, of course, but sometimes it hits him with especially staggering force, and he reels. There's a scar on the edge of her brow, a small dip of the skin that he hasn't noticed before. Her eyebrows are still furrowed, and he swallows down the urge to smooth it out. Her fringe falls in red frizzy waves on her forehead, hair messy around the midnight blue ribbon she secured it with. He smiles stupidly at it.

He wants to kiss her. Merlin above, he does so much.

But he won't. And he doesn't.

* * *

They must look strange, standing apart in an empty hallway, she with her eyes closed and he with... God knows what. Her heart seems desperate to breakaway of its cage, and her hands are in disgusting clammy fists. When he takes one of them in his own, she jumps a little.

"Okay?" he asks, lacing his fingers loosely around hers, running his thumb along the length of her index finger.

She nods. She doesn't tighten the hold, but she doesn't let go either. She can't.

"You can open your eyes now."

There's a weird look on his face when she does. Sunlight spills from the window behind her, and light swims and swirls around his nose, soft and warm on his cheekbones.

"Still scared?" His voice is low, and he dips his head a bit to meet her eyes.

"Hugely," she breathes. "But..."

"Yes?"

"What was that for?"

"What d'you think?"

She raises an eyebrow at him.

He smirks. And then he starts backing away, and it's still perfect, the timing and all, no regrets about it, but everything seems to be disintegrating. "I gotta go," he tells her, the prat. "My mates will be looking for me."

Yeah, like Slughorn wouldn't need an explanation for her tardiness as well. "But—what was that for?"

"You tell me when you've figured it out." He's still grinning—toothy, boyish grin eclipsed by the uncertainty sprinkled in the many colours of his eyes—and still walking away.

"Figured what out?" she calls, but he's gone.

* * *

There's Quidditch that weekend, Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw, and he swears he wasn't thinking about her (much) when that bludger came out of nowhere and hit him on the side of his head.

He wasn't taking that break, that otherwise still significant two-second break just after his fellow Chaser Georgia Thomas scored, to look around the stands one more time, just a bit, to make sure she really wasn't there, that he didn't just miss her somewhere.

He swears, he swears.

* * *

She has volunteered to help Madame Gerona sort library cards and student borrowing records the week before. The old lady was retiring, something about a relative and a terminal illness, and she's always been nice to Lily that it was just plain heartless to refuse. She didn't forget the match, really, she just didn't expect the job to take so long. By the time she's walking briskly to the pitch, hoping there'd still be a bit of the game left to watch, people are already trickling out of the stands by groups onto the pathways back to the castle. Her heart falls, but it falls on an even worse note when she notices them chattering excitedly, something about... an injury...?

"Sorry—is the match over?" she halts and asks a third year, his cheeks painted with streaks of blue and bronze, scarf hanging loosely around his neck.

"They stopped it, didn't they?" he says, the euphoria of the game still clearly about him. "Terrence said he didn't want to play without James playing for you lot, said it wouldn't feel much like winning even if he did catch the Snitch, and I agree—"

"Wait, what?"

"He _said_ he wouldn't play if his Chasers weren't playing against Potter—"

"Why wouldn't James play?"

"Well, he hit his head with that bludger pretty bad, didn't he? And none of the bench Chasers would take Terrence's place for Seeker, because, I mean, he's the bestest Ravenclaw's got—the seventh years were particularly set about it, so they just—"

"Where is he?"

He frowns a little at being interrupted. "Lockers. Arguing with Hooch."

"He's hit with a bludger and he's still arguing with Madame Hooch?"

"Oh, no, no. Terrence is in the locker rooms. _James Potter's_ in the infirmary..."

Lily's already halfway turned. "Right, thanks."

* * *

It hurt like hell, for sure. His vision even blacked out for a moment there, but Sirius flies fast and accurate and was there the next second beside him, making sure he didn't hurtle down to his death. He only just had time to mutter his thanks before passing out, much to his later embarrassment, but whatever. He's all patched up now. And, according to Remus, Hunter was decent enough to call the game void and demand a rematch.

He's examining his reflection on the small bedside mirror when Lily unceremoniously shifts the curtains aside, pink in the face and hair flying.

"Hello," he greets her, sheepish, and then he remembers her absence in the pitch. He looks away and starts tapping lightly on the bandage around his head, frowning at his reflection.

Lily doesn't say hi. She takes three deep breaths, and then three steps to his bed. She sits down, her hand lying idly just by his hip. Her lips are pursed, and her gaze intent. The silence stretches on.

"You okay?" he asks.

* * *

Idiot. He's lying on an infirmary bed with bandages around his head, tufts of his stubborn hair sticking out and despising the containment, and he's asking _her_ if she's okay.

She's good. She's great. Worried about him, sorry she wasn't there, but okay now. She licks her lips, readies herself to respond, but nothing comes out. She just stares at him, the warmth of his side a tempting invitation. She wants to hold his hand. Properly, like on that Hogsmeade weekend, because she thinks she's forgotten how it feels like. And she doesn't ever want to forget.

That stunt he pulled in the hallway was but a murmur of the real thing. She wants to hold his hand, and it's stronger than any kind of fear now. She needs him, needs a lot of things; needs to inspect his head for herself and make sure he didn't crack it open, because he's an idiot. She needs to apologize and berate, needs to trace his jaw with her fingertips, unearth the seasons in his eyes, taste his Quidditch-sky-laden lips...

Oh.

There. She's figured it out.

* * *

"Lily." He tries to sit up, and the effort makes him lightheaded. She's still staring at him, and although her breathing has placated, she still looks... dazed. Feeling foolish, he pokes her hand once. "Alright?"

"You didn't kiss me," she says, so softly he almost didn't catch it. And he—well, he's bloody flying again, that's what, flying and falling and never hitting the ground. "That's what it was for, isn't it?"

* * *

He smiles at her, and it's everything. _Sorry. You're right._ Something else. "I guess not entirely..."

She exhales. And then, "You're the biggest dork, you know that?"

"Whoa, I'm already physically injured, you know," he teases. "Watch my other aspects. You don't want me crumbling before you."

Her glare is only barely there. She's nervous again. "You didn't kiss me," she repeats, tells it to the James in the mirror, because that James isn't looking at her like she's a bloody fireworks show.

"I didn't," he says, tone solemn now. "I wanted to... but I didn't."

"Well," she drags out, her pinkie finger reaching over to nudge his. He twitches, but otherwise doesn't move. "I think I've figured it out."

"You have?" He's already grinning, though, head injury completely forgotten.

"I was scared you might kiss me," she says, not wasting any more time. "But I was more scared that you wouldn't."

* * *

He thinks his biggest, loudest laugh is in order, but he can't summon it. There's just that pleasant simmer on the pit of his stomach, growing infinitely and spilling out of the seams. His smile is all he can do to project the high in his bloodstream. There's light somewhere in him, everywhere in him, glowing and pulsing and coursing under his calloused skin, making him feel even more lightheaded, and if his eyes could speak all they would say is her name again and again.

He sits up, slowly, not without struggle, and then leans in to gently press his lips on her cheek.

* * *

His lips are chapped against her skin and he's grinning like an idiot and they're in the bloody hospital wing.

She thinks, for a split-moment, of starlit skies and grassy hills in summer, of the lulling thrum of waves lapping in and out of the shore.

But then he takes her hand. Properly; tight and firm and screaming "I'm yours", and it's all she cares to remember.

She gets an empty hallway filled with noon-sun, drab and empty; and a room that smells like disinfectant and bitter potions. Chapped lips and Quidditch hands and a million more breakfasts with this messy haired idiot.

She smiles, the light-sown doe stirring awake and content in the heart of her memories.

It doesn't get any more perfect than this.


End file.
